"Man, Noi is totally in Goddess mode tonight." Pan had emerged, knotting a blue-black tie. "Told you Nash could dance."
Madeleine studied him carefully, but decided to shelve the question of what kind of admiration was bright in his eyes. "Enjoying your birthday?"
"Unbelievably. And I refuse to be guilty about it. Tonight we live!"
He grabbed her hands and, head tipped back in abandoned laughter, spun her into a child’s whirl across the marble, then fumbled for more formal movements. Fisher, in crisp shirtsleeves, offered Emily his hand, and stepped her carefully through the basic movements of the waltz until Min, with a James Bond air in a suit a little too long for him, dryly recommended they fool around somewhere other than in full sight of the glass entry doors.
Furnished with coats to protect their finery, they made a quick detour to the kitchen, heating and bringing down the last of the dishes to where most of the feast was already laid out in a small room off the dance floor on the Mezzanine level. Nash opened and poured champagne, which was Fisher’s suggestion to resolve Noi and Min’s positions on cutting loose during alien invasions. They would start their meal with a glass of champagne, close the evening with a single cocktail, and otherwise stick strictly to juice and soft drink. Fisher had volunteered to be designated driver, steering them away from any sudden impulses to play chicken with Moths.
The meal was despatched with Blue gusto, Madeleine sampling parmesan-dusted gnocchi, handmade personal pizza, and sweet potato frittata before sitting back with a sigh and deciding she was glad they’d planned a gap before any desserts.
"Gift-giving time?" Nash suggested.
"Wait, you guys went shopping?" Pan pretended amazement. "Or have the Moths started a home delivery service?"
"If you’d shut up for more than five seconds at a time you might find out," Min said, swiping casually at Pan’s head. Pan ducked, but they didn’t launch into their usual mock-fight since Emily was stepping up with the first present.
"This is from me and Min," she said, presenting a stuffed pillow case serving as wrapping paper.
"Thank you, Tink," Pan said, twinkling at her. "I’d say you shouldn’t have, but really, a daily shower of gifts would be most…" He paused as a mass of folded black cloth spilled out of the case. "Sheet set? Caftan?" His eyes widened as he held it up, then with a delighted grin he swept it around him, a black cloak with an ornate golden fastening, and leaped up to stand on his chair. He preened and posed until Nash threw a bread roll at him, then leaped down to hug Emily.
"Totally awesome, Tink. Where the hell did you find it?"
"It really is sheets. We made it. Min did most of the work."
"Really?" Pan held out a hand, and shook Min’s firmly. "Thanks, man. Appreciated."
The departure from teasing imp obviously startled Min, but he recovered and shrugged. "Something to do while sitting up on watch."
Madeleine, after careful questioning of Nash, had drawn Pan in a fictional rehearsal scene of Henry V, and offered it up to earn herself an appreciative hug.
"Someone’s been spilling all my ambitions," he said, with a muted grin in Nash’s direction. "You guys are too much."
Nash simply produced another pillowcase and watched with characteristic quiet enjoyment as Pan drew a slim stack of paper out and frowned down at lines of type fresh from the hotel’s office printer.
"This is…?" Pan flushed bright pink, turned pages and looked up at Nash in disbelief, his cocksure edge lost to wonder. "You wrote this?"
"With a great deal of input from Fisher. It’s only the first act, but something to go on with."
"The Blue Musketeers: A Play by Avinash Sharma."
Pan’s voice was reverent, and it was only with difficulty that he could be distracted from an immediate read-through. Nash had inserted a Moth invasion into the plot of Dumas' adventure, tailoring the role of D’Artagnan for Pan. He admitted that he couldn’t face writing anything set in the modern day.
During the chatter Noi disappeared and returned wheeling a sweet-laden trolley topped by a two-tier candlelit cake.
"I haven’t anything so impressive as a play," she said, "but it’s as chocolate as you asked for."
Noi was underselling herself: she’d worked on the cake in the Mezzanine floor kitchen, and produced a glossy triumph of confectionary. Pan immediately put down the script and gave the cake its due, declaring his need for an urgent injection of chocolate, bowing and flourishing his cloak as they sung to him, and lustily bellowing Happy Birthday to ME before blowing out the candles.
"Thimbles all round!" he cried, and gave Noi theatrical air-kisses on each cheek, then worked his way through everyone else. He was as much Puck as Pan that evening, a breath short of wild, repaying their gift of a birthday with indefatigable high spirits, insisting on charades after cake and, when those had collapsed into helpless laughter, coaxing them all onto the dance floor to attempt the Charleston. They began to wind down after that, and moved to the restaurant so Min could create drinks with names like Tom Collins, Mint Julep and El Presidente. Emily was given a Fuzzy Navel, which Min promised had barely enough peach schnapps to taste. Madeleine sampled each, an experiment which left her pleasantly detached as they conscientiously returned to clear away the remains of their meal.
"I’ll turn off the music," she said as the others pushed away laden serving trolleys, but a song she liked shuffled into play as she approached the control screen, so she turned it up instead, and revolved to slow, mournful words on the part-lit dance floor, watching for glimpses of her stars in mirrored sections of wall.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Holding out her hands to Fisher, she drew him close so they could turn together. "Yes. Though I think I’ll stick to the mostly fruit juice drinks in future. I don’t think I could shoot straight right now. Let alone avoid shield-paralysis."
Fisher smiled, though his eyes were grave and serious. "What about the third power? Do you think you could use that at the moment?"
A bubble of laughter escaped her. "Science Boy," she said, full of a boundless affection for him. Snuggled against his chest she made a valiant attempt, but it was like building a tower of mud. "Results of experiment: negative."
His arms tightened, then he tried himself, a fine thread of Fisher which made her gasp and stumble, so intense was the flood of warmth, desire, and tender concern. Underlying it were darker emotions: an ever-present note of anger and dread.
Letting the thread of connection die away, he kissed the side of her throat, voice a breathy sigh as he said: "I wish I could do more to protect you."
"I get to protect you, remember? Or try to. Super-strong."
When he didn’t say anything she drew back and saw his mood wasn’t one which was going to respond to spirit-fuelled quips.
"I know we’re slow-dancing in the eye of the storm," she told him. "I’ll remember my promise. But I’m…very happy right now Fisher."
His expression fractured, glad of her, yet somehow wounded. "I didn’t want to waste a moment of this day on gloom," he said huskily.
"Then don’t waste any more." She kissed him, and this time summoned fire, a response so strongly passionate she felt lucky he was holding her up.